Rosy Inspiration
by Slina
Summary: Erik wants to celebrate his onemonth anniversary with Christine by writing her a love song, but it happens to be one of his uninspired days. Some EC fluff written for the 2nd PFN humour contest.


Disclaimer: I don't own either Erik or Christine, or anything else you might happen to recognize from the book.

Rosy Inspiration

Erik sat down at his desk and smiled. It had been exactly a month since Christine had come back to stay with him, and he was going to celebrate the anniversary with a gift. It had taken him a while to decide what that gift should be. He'd thought of flowers, candy, and even a special supper, but none of those ideas seemed good enough. There was only one thing he could do that would truly be appreciated: he was going to write her a song.

He tapped his pen against the desk. He could hear Christine moving around in the next room, but what she was doing, he couldn't tell. He wondered if she'd practiced yet. He really should remind her.

He scolded himself for being distracted so easily and looked down at the blank sheet of paper. He was never going to get that epic love song done if he never even thought about it! But what was he going to write? The beginning was always the hardest. He thought back to the last thing he'd written: Don Juan Triumphant. How had he started that one? No, it was too long ago; he couldn't remember. Maybe if he could at least think of the first line? Wait, that wouldn't help. He didn't want his love song to Christine to be depressing.

He looked around the room. Maybe he could get some inspiration that way. There was a vase of roses sitting on the table. He always used to give her roses out of that very same vase. Maybe that's what he could write about.

He bent over his paper and started the first line:

_Roses are red,_

No, wait, that was no good. He was much better than that! He crumpled up the paper and threw it to the floor. He pulled out another sheet of paper and stared very hard at the roses. There had to be some inspiration in there somewhere. Come to think of it, maybe he'd been on the right track after all. Well, it was worth a try, anyway.

_Roses are red, like your rosy lips._

It wasn't the best thing he'd ever written, but maybe he could come back and revise it later. What about the next line? He looked around the room and spotted the candle.

_Flames are yellow, like your shining hair._

Erik wrote a few more lines, stopping at the end of each phrase. He was starting to feel rather good about himself. He was finally writing romantic poetry. He could just imagine Christine throwing herself into his arms, declaring him the most romantic author ever known to mankind. At last, he stopped and read what he had so far:

_Roses are red, like your rosy lips.  
Flames are yellow, like your shining hair.  
Milk is creamy, like your lovely skin.  
The sky is blue, like your sparkling eyes._

Erik's mouth dropped wide open. Had he really just written that horrible excuse of a poem? He crumpled it into a very tiny ball and flung it across the room. Romantic writing was coming with much more difficulty than he had expected. Maybe he should stick with writing tragic sagas. Don Juan Triumphant could always use a sequel…

No, he had set out with a purpose, and he would keep writing until that purpose had been met. He pulled out another blank sheet of paper. Maybe if he could think about what it was that he loved about Christine so much. She had a good voice; a voice like an angel. Perhaps he could write about that. Or there was always her flawless beauty. Or her wonderful decision to come back to him. He still couldn't get over that last one. Christine really did love him after all! But how was he supposed to turn that into a poem?

His thoughts were interrupted by a sound at the door. He spun around in his seat to see Christine watching him. He dove to the floor to pick up the crumpled papers before she could see them. "Good morning, angel," he said quickly, trying to hide the sheets behind his back.

Christine gave him her radiant smile. "Good morning!" she said cheerfully. "What are you doing?"

Erik stuffed the paper into a back pocket. "Nothing important," he said.

"What are you writing, then?" Christine asked.

Erik tried to keep his innocent look, but it was growing increasingly difficult. She was using her puppy eyes on him again. "I'm working on…" He tried to think quickly. "On an opera."

Christine gave him a cute frown. "I thought you had finished Don Juan," she said, sounding very confused.

"Oh, well, I'm working on another one now," he said. "Don Juan Triumphant wasn't tragic enough, and I didn't like the ending." He desperately hoped she'd believe him.

Christine smiled, then frowned again. "But why does it need to be more tragic? And what was wrong with the ending?"

Erik held back a scowl. This lying business was much more difficult than it seemed. "It's simply my artistic vision, Christine," he said. "If you ever write anything, you'll understand exactly what I mean."

Christine nodded, obviously not understanding at all. "What's your new opera called?"

Erik hadn't exactly been expecting that question. He hesitated before answering. If he wrote another opera, what _would_ he call it? His desperate thoughts remembered the vase of roses. "It's called Roses of Passion." A bad name for an opera, perhaps, but if he couldn't think of anything better…

Christine giggled. "Then I'll just leave you to your work. I know how you can be when you're writing." She kissed him on the cheek and skipped out of the room.

Erik sank down in his chair in relief. She hadn't found out what he was up to after all. Still, he might want to hurry if he wanted to finish before she came in again. He picked up his pen and held it poised above the paper. Maybe roses were a good idea after all, just not in the way he'd been thinking. Maybe, just maybe, "Roses of Passion" would work. He thought for a moment, and began writing again.

_Roses of Passion_

I love roses, but I do not  
love them nearly as much as you;  
You are very special to me,  
I promise you that this is true.  
I love roses, and seal my love  
By giving you a diamond ring;  
And now I am reminded of  
my love for you each time you sing.

Erik crumpled up the paper and threw it onto the floor. That attempt had been no better than the last one. Surely he could come up with something better. He pulled out another page and tried again.

Two and a half hours later, he had used nearly the entire stack of paper and still hadn't written anything good enough. He was beginning to wonder if she'd like it better if he just played Don Juan Triumphant for her instead. In fact, the only thing stopping him from doing it was the knowledge that she wouldn't enjoy it at all. No, he had to write something pretty and romantic.

He pulled out the final sheet of paper. He wanted to write something, anything. He had to; this was the last sheet of paper. It was this or nothing. But what if he failed?

He crumpled up the sheet of paper and slumped back in his chair. Why even bother trying? He apparently couldn't write anymore. He had always been much better suited to songs about death anyway. But what could he give her, then?

He could hear Christine calling him, that supper was ready. He reluctantly stood up and turned to go. Spying the vase on his way out, he grabbed one of the roses. She always had loved roses.


End file.
